


the theory of everything

by celestialmechanics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Miya Atsumu in Love, Pining Miya Atsumu, Wholesome, i only mention space motifs like twice aren't u proud, just atsumu watching shouyou sleep in the early hours of dawn, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialmechanics/pseuds/celestialmechanics
Summary: A combination of the 118 elements known to man formed Atsumu and every other person on this earth. Instead of phosphate or nitrogen or the millions of isotopes of carbon, Shouyou’s made directly from the cosmic dust itself - the sunlight shifts and flickers, and Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat - perhaps he’s made from the essence of God himself.Atsumu thinks again of the painting and still can’t remember what it’s called, but it honestly doesn’t matter whether the man in his bed peeled himself off of a canvas, hatched from an egg, or crashlanded on the planet’s surface in an escape pod because somehow, he has a toothbrush in Atsumu’s bathroom, has a home in Atsumu’s bed, sleeps in it peacefully with sunlight streaked across his face, oblivious to how divinity manifests itself in the rise and fall of his chest.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	the theory of everything

**Author's Note:**

> atsumu: head NOT empty, FULL of thoughts, ALL of them about shouyou. keep scrolling.
> 
> [the painting atsumu thinking abt is "Fallen Angel" by Alexandre Cabanel (1847) btw](https://www.wikiart.org/en/alexandre-cabanel/fallen-angel)

It’s a painting - he knows that for sure. Maybe it came out of the Renaissance era, materialized from the hands of a Michaelangelo or Raphael - or perhaps it’s the work of one of the old Dutch masters, canvas smeared with oil paints that smell faintly of turpentine - or maybe it’s more contemporary, and the artist’s studio was lit not by a pool of warm sunlight or a soft haze spilling from candles but by blazing fluorescents overhead, the only noise the faint buzzing of electricity working overtime. He’s only ever seen renditions and duplications of the artwork through his phone screen, knows only its pixelated composition. He used to wonder what it might look like, hung on the stark white walls of a gallery or museum: were the colors more muted than the twice-edited oversaturated version that Google images offers? Did the paint strokes flow in one direction, all orderly and smooth, or were they jagged and angry like the subject? 

He used to wonder these things, because how else could he ever know what it was like to set your eyes upon something so powerful and divine and nameless, something passed down from generation to generation, something cared for and cherished and lovingly placed upon the walls of places built by monarchs all those centuries ago? Even if he’d had the chance to wander into one of those liminal spaces, white walls void of anything save for a single breathtaking canvas - even if he was allowed to venture through it in the dead of night, gallery halls empty except for him, what could he do other than stare at those furious eyes and let them stare back at him? He thinks he could stand in that one spot for eight, ten, twelve hours, feet rooted to the tile floor and eyes unblinking, and it still wouldn’t be enough time for him to understand how something can be merely acrylic and oil and glossy varnish and still feel like it was brought to life for him and him alone.

He used to wonder these things, anyway, because the painting was probably laughing along with the Mona Lisa in the gold-trimmed halls of the Louvre or framed upon the walls of the never-ending spiral staircase of the Guggenheim, or god-forbid lost in the fires of some war fought over a century ago, buried in a pile of ash among Rembrandts and Vermeers, priceless beyond human comprehension, and lost for all eternity. 

He used to wonder these things, but then the man with the angry eyes decided that he’d had enough of this painting, could no longer bear the static nothingness of unmoving paint strokes, and broke free from his canvas and landed in Miya Atsumu’s life. 

Hinata Shouyou, Atsumu decides, is not mortal in the same way as the rest of the world’s inhabitants. Sure, he has blood and muscle and bone and a beating heart, but Atsumu’s not convinced that it’s the same blood and muscle and bone that he and everyone else are doomed to posses. 

Next to him, Shouyou shuffles deeper into the sheets of the bed. The red-orange sunrise filters in through their window and bounces off the leaves of the hanging pothos plant, scatters across his sleeping face, caressing his cheekbones with the warm yellow of dawn. In adulthood, Shouyou’s hair is a less obnoxious shade of orange, the tangerine hue having mellowed out to something closer to bronze, like the color of a sunset - but in the early hours of dawn, it looks like fire. Strands of it fall into Shouyou’s closed eyes, spill onto the crisp white of the pillowcase, and for the billionth time in his 23 years on Earth, Atsumu thinks to himself that Hinata Shouyou is beautiful. 

Maybe he is human - after all, Atsumu can see his chest rise and fall with each breath. But Atsumu guesses that he’s composed of atoms from a different plane of reality, from a different universe altogether. The elements in the universe first exploded into being from a supernova 15 billion years ago, and cosmic dust solidified into something that could become anything. A combination of the 118 elements known to man formed Atsumu and every other person on this earth. Instead of phosphate or nitrogen or the millions of isotopes of carbon, Shouyou’s made directly from the cosmic dust itself - the sunlight shifts and flickers, and Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat - perhaps he’s made from the essence of God himself.

Atsumu thinks again of the painting and still can’t remember what it’s called, but it honestly doesn’t matter whether the man in his bed peeled himself off of a canvas, hatched from an egg, or crashlanded on the planet’s surface in an escape pod because somehow, he has a toothbrush in Atsumu’s bathroom, has a home in Atsumu’s bed, sleeps in it peacefully with sunlight streaked across his face, oblivious to how divinity manifests itself in the rise and fall of his chest. 

This morning is the same as all other mornings because Atsumu pinches himself on the arm, hard, and begs the powers that be to let him never wake up from this miraculous dream. When Atsumu opens his eyes again, Shouyou is still there. His lips are slightly parted, and Atsumu is close enough for the hot puffs of air Shouyou exhales to caress his cheek. He thinks, for the billionth time plus one, that Hinata Shouyou is beautiful. Atsumu’s heart squeezes painfully, and his fingers twitch with the barely restrained urge to reach out and touch - to move the red-bronze-sunset hair from his closed eyes, to grab his pinky finger with his own, bring the palm of Shouyou’s hand to his lips and whisper something so embarrassingly poetic he’d have Shakespeare rolling in the grave. 

Atsumu rolls back onto his stomach and shoves his hands underneath his pillow, unwilling to risk waking Shouyou with his selfish touch. These moments where he’s allowed to savor some philosophical and sappy internal monologue are few and far between; Shouyou is, surprisingly, easily flustered by Atsumu’s unbridled infatuation with him (not that Atsumu is much better at dealing with Shouyou’s unrelenting affection, but still-). Any moment now, Shouyou’s eyelids will flutter open; when he catches Atsumu staring at him with unfocused eyes and a dry tongue, he’ll roll his barely-opened eyes and his cheeks will flush. He’ll hit Atsumu over the head with a pillow, that mouth will curve into a grin that’s contrarily both goofy and coy, he’ll swing a leg over Atsumu’s hips and plant his palms on Atsumu’s chest and kiss him like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do. 

Atsumu’s eyes drift across their popcorn ceiling. He sees Shouyou’s pothos plant hanging from the ceiling, knows that later today, Shouyou will stand on the bed and maneuver himself into a position so that he can water it. Atsumu will anxiously stand in the doorway because despite seeing Shouyou defy death and gravity to water this plant hundreds of times, he still worries that Shouyou will lose his balance and fall. He thinks of the coffee machine in his kitchen and how it will start the auto-brewing process in about 30 minutes, how Atsumu will step out of bed and onto the ground, and his feet will feel cold on the tile in the kitchen. How he’ll return to the bedroom with two mugs and Shouyou will stretch his arms over his head, how his shoulders will pop back into place - maybe one of them will make a shitty joke about Sakusa - and Atsumu will stick his feet under the covers and shove his icy toes against the base of Shouyou’s spine, will feel how he shivers from the cold and shakes from his surprised laughter. 

This morning is like every other morning. A 17-year-old Miya Atsumu would be thrilled at the fact that Adult Atsumu is in love with Hinata Shouyou (and even better, Hinata Shouyou is in love with him), and yet would be shocked that he could find peace in the monotony of domesticity. Atsumu has a short attention span - when things disappear from his sightlines, they typically disappear from his headspace for good. Yet Hinata Shouyou had wriggled his way into Atsumu’s mind and heart more than half a decade ago and hasn’t budged an inch since - not when he lost to an 18-year-old Atsumu at Nationals, not when he packed his bags and shipped off to Brazil, not when he made good on his promise and hit Atsumu’s tosses like it was the sole reason for his existence. 

This morning is like every other morning. Atsumu has been awake for an hour, but he thinks it’d be ok if he stayed here for eight hours more because he never expected to see a masterpiece, a miracle, a manifestation of ethereal essence with his own two eyes and who in their mind could expect him ever to look away? The Sun inches further into the sky, and the red-orange dawn turns to the golden light of day. Atsumu watches Shouyou’s chest rise and fall, the sunlight coating him like a fleece blanket, and he thinks for the billionth time plus two (or three, or four, or a billion more) that Shouyou is beautiful. 

He winces when he pinches himself this time. He rubs his thumb in circles around the angry red crescent moons before a small tanned hand wraps itself around his wrist and pulls him closer. Atsumu raises his eyes to meet those of Shouyou - and as much as he loves the painting, the one whose name he can’t remember, he loves the softness of this Shouyou’s amber gaze even more. Shouyou lifts Atsumu’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss to his palm, and whispers something that makes Atsumu’s ribcage hurt.

This morning is like every other morning, and that in and of itself is somehow miraculous. 

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahahhaha i've written so. much academic stuff this week so this is simply a vent (?) so i could empty all of the flowery language out of my system before returning to papers on legal philosophy and climate science :) hope u liked it, comments and kudos are instant serotonin boosters please i Am Once Again Asking


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